Retrograde
by Carpe That Diem
Summary: Allison is dead. Scott's pack is left broken. Stiles has been attacked. Everything is different. The residents of Beacon Hills must prepare as a new, dark threat looms on the horizon after two, strange werewolves arrive. It seems that with the two new additions to Beacon Hills, something much more sinister follows their wake. (Post S3. S4 & S5 don't exist.)
1. Preface

**Pasadena, Calif. July 23rd, 2014**

A woman sat at her desk in a dark build. Night flood the empty offices and cubicles. The only sound was the occasional turning of a page, the soft scratch of pen against paper, and the hum of the air conditioning unit as it kicked on and off. A desk lamp poured yellow light onto the books in front of the woman. There were four all haphazardly splayed across the surface, while others were stacked, tilting dangerously

Tapping the end of the pen against the desk, she leaned further over one book. It was a large tome with pages faded to yellow by oxidation and fray at the edges from ears of different moths and bugs munching on the old paper. Symbols and paintings that were quite faded were etched onto the paper, soft and worn with time.

Nodding, the woman added something to her notes.

On the lines of paper, there were letters and things written in slanted, messy handwriting. Smudges from where she hadn't let the ink dry arched across the parchment. Things were crossed out and rewritten. The same symbol was written all over the pages; it was in the margins, on top of the paper, crammed anywhere that fit her fancy.

Behind her desk, the clock ticked. The hands marked it at thirteen minutes passed midnight. She paid the clock no mine, continuing to flip the pages delicately to read. She didn't even turn when the minute hand began to slow, ticking slower and slower by the second.

 _Tick. Tick….Tick…Tick._

Still, the woman didn't turn around. Several minutes later, she looked up suddenly, as though she had been torn from a dream. She looked around her office. Her large lights weren't on because she sat in a complex maze of cubicles where the overhead light wasn't under her sole command.

Finding nothing, the woman glanced at her watch. Her mouth twisted down and her brows pulled together. She tapped the glass face of her watch a few times. It did nothing, the minute hand frozen. Undeterred, she spun in her chair, craning her neck to look up at the clock on the wall. Her frown intensified.

Pulling the rolling chair towards the clock, she reached up and tapped the face. It didn't move. She continued to stare up at it for a moment, but was distracted as a shadow fell over her. Her heart sped up, noticing that the shadow was distorted on the walls. It wasn't her own. An eerie feeling crept up her spine as she slowly began to wheel the chair around.

The chair only spun a quarter of the way towards the owner of the shadow. There was a sharp scream of terror cut off by a guttural, choking sound. Then, there was silence.

The clock moved no more.


	2. A Bitter Farewell

"And the ship went out into the High Sea and passed into the West, until at last on a night of rain Frodo smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water. And then it seemed to him that as in his dream in the house of Bombadil, the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise."

\- J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Return of the King_

* * *

 **Beacon Hills, Calif. Present Day**

A grey sky stretched over the graveyard. Solemn headstones decorated the freshly kept grass. Flower arrangements and other tokens of love lost were set preciously around headstones. Others stood bare and silent, facing the soft wind that carried through the yard.

The graveyard was large and set on flat land, the back of it lining up to the woods of Beacon Hills. Rows upon rows of plain white chairs were colored by a sea of black. Mourners spoke quietly, somber faces worn by many. There were hardly enough chairs to hold the crowd. There were swells of people, trying to respectfully avoid standing on any graves around the plot of land, but also trying to make space.

Lydia wasn't surprised to see so many people show up. She sat in her car, hands secured to the driving wheel. She felt as though her shoes were suddenly filled with lead, unable to move her feet or make herself get out of the car. She stared at the masses of people. Everyone from school and more had come to give their condolences to the Argent family and their friends.

Some of the harder parts were already over. Lydia had already walked down an empty hallway at school, a ghost of regret and pain haunting her all the way. She had already put in the locker combination with shaking hands and unsteady breath. It had taken her two hours to clean out Allison's locker. Countless times, she had found herself sinking to the ground, unable to bring herself to take one more possession from the locker.

Everyone always said funerals were the difficult part. You had to thank people for coming. You had to speak your piece. You had to be collected, but emotional at the same time. It was nothing compared to cradling a box filled with Allison's things to her chest. It was nothing compared to walking into the silent apartment to set the box on an empty bed.

Lydia could barely look at Chris Argent in the eyes. She could barely stand to see a man who had lost everything. A wife. A daughter. A sister. No connection to his father.

No, funerals were not the hardest part.

Steeling herself, Lydia got out of her car. She was parked in front of the hearse. A body of people stood around the car, dressed in black. These were the people who shared her burden. These were the friends whose hearts bled just like Lydia's. There was something about shared pain that made the burden lighter.

As Lydia approached, Stiles looked up. He was dressed in a fine suit of all black. He had dark circles under his eyes and his skin was still pale. There was no smile on his face and no gleam in his eye. The spark that usually lit this boy from the inside out was completely gone. Pain and exhaustion and something a little darker hung around him like a cloak.

Despite the obvious weight sitting on Stiles' mind, he came over to Lydia magnetically. There was no doubting that he would walk to her. He opened his arms and she hugged him tightly, feeling her eyes close automatically. Here was someone who had been on the brink of death, who was so haunted by the things he had seen that he was sure to feel the same way as Lydia did.

But that was impossible. No one could _feel_ death the way Lydia did. No one could understand what it was like to physically feel your best friend leave the world, to feel her life slip from her body. It was something only Banshees could understand.

The tight embrace helped sooth the pain. Stiles smelled like he always did: faint body wash, a small taste of hair gel, warm clothes. Lydia pulled away, trying to force a smile to her face. It failed and she didn't try again. She didn't have to force anything with these people. They understood.

Kira touched Lydia on the shoulder but said nothing. Her jet black hair was pulled into a bun, her almond eyes soft, comforting. Her other hand was on Scott's shoulder. His lip was pulled between his teeth, dark eyes cast to a faraway though. Lydia had only seen Scott in a suit once. It had been at the homecoming dance freshman year when he was dancing gently with Allison.

 _Allison_.

Isaac stood with and without the group. He said nothing, he looked at no one. His face seemed to be made of marble. Lydia hated that Isaac looked so natural in his grief. He wore it like it was second nature. Grief suited him, and she was unsure of how to comfort him. Chris walked up and cleared his throat. Lydia hated that a small part of her was relieved that she hadn't had to say anything.

"They're-" Chris broke off slightly and cleared his throat again. His normally blue eyes were grey, like they had been drained of color. "They're ready for the processional. Would you boys- would you be willing to carry it- her?"

"Of course, Mr. Argent," Stiles said. He sounded a lot more confident than Lydia had expected. "Kira can help us. She's more than capable."

"It would be an honor," she agreed, bowing her head.

"Thank you." Lydia could tell Chris meant it. "Lydia, I'd like you to walk with me, if you don't mind."

"Of course."

The group carrying Allison's casket surged forward. Lydia moved around and stood back with Chris, two silent statutes watching as the procession went underway. Normally it would take several people to carry Allison down the procession aisle. It was easy for three supernatural creatures and Stiles.

Allison's casket was beautiful. It was sleek and black with gold trimming and gold grips for Allison's closest family and friends to do the honor of escorting her to the gravesite. Lydia felt sick to her stomach as she looked at the black box. She suddenly felt like everything was distant. She was vaguely aware of wrapping her arm with Chris'. She could hardly feel herself fall behind the procession.

It didn't feel real. It felt like Lydia wasn't in her body. She wondered how she got to wear she was. This was surreal. There was no way that she was walking behind the casket of her best friend. She could see the back of Isaac and Stiles in front of her, holding the weight firmly, but she didn't understand. Allison couldn't be in there. Not really.

Everything felt opaque. She couldn't even find it within herself to cry. She was so distracted by the absurdity of it all that she was simply a shell of Lydia, walking down the aisle but not feeling. The pain was gone, leaving only a vague awareness of where she was.

Lydia didn't come back until she was watching them lower the casket into the ground. Her heart sank with it and she squeezed her eyes shut. Tears escaped still, coming at their own will. Lydia began to die inside. It went lower and lower. The girl who had been killed trying to save Lydia. Who died protecting her friends, in the arms of someone she loved, in front of those who loved her.

The only thought that kept coming in waves was _why_. Why were things like this? Why did evil always come to Beacon Hills? Why was so much taken from Lydia and her friends again and again? They were just kids- just people who were trying to live another day. But they were losing, and losing and losing. It never stopped. Death was always there, always waiting.

Allison wasn't the first to have been lost. She hadn't been the last. There was still another funeral to come. Still another life to mourn for Aidan. Lydia had mourned enough, it was second nature to her now. It never stopped hurting, and it never stopped happening, and it wasn't fair.

Lydia just wanted it to _stop_. But she would take the pain every single day, she would bear the weight of death as her shadow, she would follow the reaper to the destruction, and to those who had passed without ever complaining again if it meant she could have Allison back. She would embrace the Banshee, the proclaimer of death, if she could just have Allison back.

But she couldn't.

The Martin's lake house was filled with people who had attended Allison's funeral earlier that day. _Allison's funeral_. It was weird to think that even in death, she had something that was hers, despite the fact that she was no longer there to claim it. The absurdity of it disturb Isaac. He knocked back the rest of his drink before slipping from the room.

It was hard to be in a room with so many people. Isaac was unfamiliar with large crowds to begin with. School was as comfortable as he got with them. There, he knew the faces around him, and everyone was too busy with their own tasks and world to pay any mind to him. He preferred to remain under the radar.

Standing in a room with more than half the community was suffocating. He felt pressed up against the walls and haunted by the pictures of Allison looking out into the crowd. Pictures that held more life than she ever would again. It bothered him to no end, forcing him to find is way to the boat house that rested on the placid lake.

A silver crescent of a moon carved into the night sky. The lake house was far enough away from the main part of Beacon Hills that Isaac could see the stars. He stood on the very edge of the dock, the toes of his shoes hanging over the edge. The lake was so calm and black in the night that it looked like slick oil.

Trees stood around the lake, dark sentries in all their pine glory. It was quiet out, though Isaac could easily hear the party dimly through the night air. He focused on other sounds like crickets moving in the sand a few yards away, or an owl shuffling its wings from the rafters of the boat house.

The Martin's had a beautiful place. It was large and stood in solidarity, other houses on the far side of the lake to the north or down a ways where it opened up into another basin at the food of a small but rocky mountain. Being on the outskirts of the city was a new world entirely. Things out here were calmer, rougher and more natural.

Isaac cast his eyes down. There he was, standing on the edge of a lake with a beautiful night unraveling its secrets before him. He couldn't find it within himself to appreciate any of it. He didn't really admire the way the owl's wings were smoky shades of grey to blend into the night. He didn't care that the cricket was singing, trying to find a mate. It all paled in comparison if he couldn't share it with Allison.

Would she have even wanted to be here with him?

Over and over again Isaac had thought about the last words she said. Isaac had been there, watching from his knees on the cold pavement as Allison sputtered, clinging to life for a few seconds as she told Scott that she loved him. _Scott. She loved Scott_. Isaac felt the dagger of heartbreak slide between his ribs.

Footsteps warned him that someone was approaching. He turned over his shoulder though he already knew it was Scott. They hadn't talked about anything in depth since the altercation with the Oni and the night that Allison died. They still had to rid themselves of the nogitsune, a fiendish opponent.

Now things unsaid stretch between them as vast as the ocean.

Scott stood next to Isaac without saying much. He was no longer in the suit jacket he had been wearing earlier. He was a still statue of tan skin, white shirt rolled up to the elbows. Through the fabric of the shirt, Isaac could see the two, thick-black tattoo lines that created a band around Scott's arm.

"How are you doing?" Isaac looked at Scott. Scott's voice was soft, layered with colors of concern. His dark eyes searched Isaac's face. Isaac didn't hide the pain- he didn't need to. Scott was like a brother. "You know you can talk to me… even after."

"I know," Isaac agreed, nodding and looking down at the water again. He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I know that. You're a good friend."

Scott nodded and didn't say anything. It seemed like there was something he wanted to say, so Isaac waited. "She loved you too," Scott murmured eventually. His eyes were looking across the lake, unfocused. "Allison saw something in you I think no one else did, and she really loved that about you."

"Maybe."

Scott looked at him severely. "Sometimes you can love two people in very different ways. I don't think it means that she loved you any less- ever."

"I could never be you, though, could I?"

"She wouldn't have wanted that."

"Yeah, I also don't think she would have wanted to die saving me inches from death."

Scott grabbed Isaac by both of the shoulders. Isaac's jaw flexed angrily. He wasn't upset with Scott, not in the slightest. Being upset with himself was a different story. He remembered Allison coming to his rescue, his warrior in battle armor, the snap of her bow and the sing of her arrow like a warning from the Muses as Allison stormed the Oni.

"Don't think for a second she would have regret her decision," Scott said roughly. There was a raw intensity in his face that was unique to Scott. "Allison died saving her friends, and she would die every day if it meant saving her friends. That's the kind of people we are- we sacrifice for one another."

"What kind of friendships are those?" Isaac's voice was hollow as he pulled away from Scott. "Killing ourselves for one another, walking the line between death and insanity because can't live without one another." Scott seemed hurt. Isaac felt guilt pit in the bottom of his stomach. It wasn't his intention to hurt Scott's feelings.

"We're just a bunch of matches," Isaac mumbled. "Lighting ourselves on fire to light the way for the people we love. What happens when the matches run out, Scott?"

There was no reply because Scott didn't have one.

* * *

 **AN: I really wanted to do something that essentially erased everything after season three. I don't really like anything plot wise from then on, so I've taken it upon myself to change what happens. This includes but is not limited to: editing character arcs, changing some of the mythology of the show, and going in a _different_ direction than Jeff Davis & writers intended. I sincerely hope you enjoy this. **


	3. The Battle of the Wolf Inside

"Fool, prate not to me about covenants. There can be no covenants between men and lions, wolves and lambs can never be of one mind, but hate each other out and out an through. Therefore there can be no understanding between you and me, nor may there be any covenants between us, till one or other shall fall."

\- Homer, _The Iliad_

* * *

The lights were dim in the Beacon Hills Sheriff Department. They were always dim, burning a soft gold at night, sometimes flickering as one or two bulbs burned out. Stiles had never seen anyone change a bulb before. He was almost positive that the same bulbs had been burning away their lives since he was a kid.

Deputy Jordan Parrish sat at his desk. He was leaning heavily on one hand, elbow on the wooden desk. He rolled a pencil back and forth, the sound a soft whisper of noise in the otherwise silent station. Stiles looked at his dad's screen saver. A colorful timestamp bounced around the screen, spinning every time it hit an edge of the monitor. It read 11:30.

Stiles yawned. His dad had left about an hour earlier, just as Stiles had walked into the station to bring him a very late dinner. The rolled up paper bag was still on the desk, the heat having escaped long ago. Grease stains stained the bottom corners of the paper and the smell of fries was faint in the room.

Giving up on waiting for his dad, Stiles grabbed his backpack and hauled it over his shoulder. He shoved his phone into his jeans, soft and worn from years of use. He closed the door behind him, the blinds rattling lightly, causing Parrish to look up at him, his eerie green eyes bleary.

"Heading out?"

"Yeah, seems like he's going to be gone a while."

Parrish nodded. "You know how it gets. I'll tell him you head home."

"Thanks. Try not to get too bored on the night shift."

"I do believe your well wishes are not well used."

Lifting a single hand, Stiles waved a farewell. He walked out of the station into the cool night. The moon was high in the sky, a full moon. He paused to observe it. A few years ago, he would have thought nothing of it. Now Stiles was familiar with lunar cycles throughout the year and different types of lunar phenomena. He felt like he owed it to Scott to keep up.

Juggling his keys in his hands, he walked towards the light blue jeep that sat in the dark, silence of the parking lot. Just as he neared it, a sound from around the side of the building alerted him. He spun around, heart leaping out of his chest. Nothing was visible from where he was standing, but he heard something knock a few bottles over.

Nervously, Stile's fingers played with his keys as he chewed the corner of his lip. In his experience, nothing was _just_ noise anymore. Every bump in the night and every clink in an alleyway was some new type of horror. Stiles had seen and felt things that made him jumpy all the time. Especially recently.

Thinking better of it, he turned to get in the jeep. A soft cry in the alley made him freeze. It was absolutely human, a sound that he had heard from himself before. The sound was gentle and he almost hadn't heard it, but he understood it wholeheartedly. It was a small cry of agony and pain, like someone so lost with what to do that they could do nothing but whimper.

Steeling himself, Stiles turned around, marching towards the sound. He clutched the keys in his hand like a weapon, deciding that he could use them to stab someone if there was some washed up druggie around the building. Most users didn't walk up to a Sherriff department, but once in a blue moon people turned themselves in to get help.

At the mouth of the alley, Stiles slowed. It was darker further back by the dumpsters. An AC unit kicked on and startling him, making him gasp and jump backwards, hand flying to his chest. He breathed a sigh of relief and cursed himself for the hammering heart in his ribcage.

One foot after the next, he entered the alley. It smelled damp and like old garbage. It was unpleasant, making him curl his lip in disgust. A grimy puddle formed under the AC unit, soft water dripping, not making a sound.

Stiles heard someone once again. This time, the whimper was louder, frustrated. He crept towards the dumpster, seeing the outline of a shadow on the other side of it. Someone was crouched down on the ground, their back to him. From the looks of it, it was a girl. She was petite with delicate hands pulling at the hair on top of her head, fingers buried in her hair only the pale tops of them visible.

"Do you need help?" Stiles asked, stopping where he was. Her hands were bone white with the strain of them knotting in her hair. She had been rocking slightly, but froze at his voice. She didn't move. He cleared his throat. "Look, if you're tweaking or… my dad is the Sheriff, he can help you- whatever you need."

Still, the girl didn't move. Stiles lifted his foot to take another step forward, but something stopped him. He narrowed his eyes, trying to get a better look at her. He noticed that while she was small, she had powerful shoulders. Her hands, now that he was really looked at them, seemed gnarled and strong, curled like they were making a claw. She was also breathing hard now, her back heavy with the movement, her breath ragged and loud.

"What the hell," Stiles muttered. The girl shuddered and slowly her head turned, her face peering at him from over her shoulder. A scream worked its way up his throat, and he stumbled backwards, realizing his mistake as she curled her lip, her fangs bared and a snarl building in her chest like an oncoming thunder storm. Her eyes burned like red coals.

Despite knowing it was futile, Stiles turned and ran for the jeep. He couldn't help the scream that ripped through his vocal chords so violently that he thought they would burst. He ran for the car but he heard the sound behind him. His scream had forced away any human part of the werewolf in the alley and the alpha gave chase.

Stiles splashed into the AC runoff puddle, dirt and grim making it slippery. He lost his balance immediately, foot sliding awkwardly in the muck and throwing him forward. The black pavement raced to meet him, but he felt something much worse than the oncoming pavement.

Teeth ripped into his ankle, tearing through muscle and tendon. Stiles felt a moment of blinding, ripping pain in his leg before he smacked his head against the pavement. A universe of black and stars swallowed him, and everything winked out of existence.

A sensory overload stumbled into every part of Kale. She curled deeper into the earth hovel she found. She could smell the damp earth that she was pressing herself into. She could feel the compact dirt sticking to her skin, clinging and smeared to make her arms look like they were covered with silt. She could hear the squirrels barking at her in the tree just at the top of the hovel, angry that someone was so close to the base of their home.

Eyes squeezed hard enough to make colors dance behind closed lids, Kale tried to shut everything off. She was overwhelmed, the effects of the full moon pulling at her in every direction. That was the thing about being two halves of a thing: one was always battling for dominance, and it took patience and absolute determination to harmonize them.

Hunger clawed at her stomach. Kale fought the urge to climb up the tree and rip the squirrels apart. It would be easy to tear through their fury and devour them. The beast part of her salivated at the thought while the human part recoiled, gagging. She tried to rein in the wolf.

"Here are nine planets that we know," Kale whispered, her voice raspy and soft. "Round and round the sun they go. Mercury, Venus, Earth and Mars, these are the planets near our star."

Things began connecting. She began creating synapses, putting things in order and sorting the priorities of her thoughts, of the two Kales within her. She shuffled the wolf back into its proper place, the growling winding down. She no longer felt her hunger as strongly as she had before, and she no longer saw things in blurred images that were difficult to understand.

Opening her eyes, she looked around. She was hidden in an earthen alcove, roots of a tree making up her ceiling as they spiraled and stabbed outward out of the ground. The earth curved over her slightly, providing her with a nice hole to tuck into. Once again, she was absolutely naked, the cool air making her shiver.

Rubbing her eyes with her hands, she crawled out of the space and stood. Kale was in woods that she was still unfamiliar with. She and her sister had only gotten to Beacon Hills four days prior. Kale had been at a gas station the night before, but things got blurry when she tried to remember coming to the woods. She had never intended on losing absolute control last night.

Kale hadn't intended for a lot of things.

It seemed, though, that she had intended on ruining her clothes. She found her bag, picking it up and opened the top. A worn out pair of jeans and a overly large sweater were inside with a few other menial possessions. She grabbed the clothes and quickly ran down to the stream, jumping into the freezing water and washing off the dirt she had managed to coat herself in.

Still wet, she pulled on the clothes, not carrying if she made them damp. Kale used her fingers to brush through her long, brown hair. It was tangled with sticks and leaves but that was of a minor problem. She didn't care much for how her hair looked, there were other issues, the forefront of them being the night before.

It was hard to remember. A majority of the time, werewolves not in control during a full moon have little to no recollection of their night. They are another thing entirely, a conscience acting without the human half, something separate. Kale couldn't remember the last time she had struggled to control the shift, but last night there was no stopping it.

Sitting down on the bank of the steam, she plucked up pieces of grass. It wasn't difficult to guess why she hadn't been able to control the shift. Unlike her sister Rhea- who was arguably smarter- Kale made her anchor a person. People did not make good anchors.

For the last four years, Kale had done okay for herself. But there was only one thing that could keep her from shifting, and it was the same for every werewolf: an anchor. Now that Kale no longer had an appropriate anchor, full moons were going to disturb her every lunar cycle unless she found something that grounded her to her own sense of being.

Getting up, Kale tried not to think much about it.

Tracing her steps through the woods, she looked for any sign or evidence that could point her to her activities the night before. It was obvious to her that she had ripped off her clothes. She did not have the rare ability to change into full form, but that seemed to never stop her other half from ripping the clothes off of her body and running around like a raging maniac.

It also didn't stop her from killing and eating animals from time to time. Her stomach roiled at the thought.

Kale approached the edge of a road. It was a simple road, a single lane going in either direction. It was straight for a ways then lost her sight around the curve. She could hear for miles, though. There was no one on the road. Walking on the pavement, she pulled out her phone, dialing a number.

After two rings, the line turned on. "Where in God's name are you?"

"I told you it was going to be a rough night." Kale chaffed at the anger in her sister's voice. Rhea made a sound on the other line. Kale could hear her shut a door. "I fell asleep in the woods, I'm walking back now."

"You'd better run back."

"Why?" Rhea hesitated on the other end of the line. Kale's steps slowed. She felt more than heard her twin's hesitance on the other end of the line. "Rhea, _why_?"

"You attacked someone, Kay."

On its own accord, Kale's hand flew to her mouth. Her chest tightened as the air left her body, a sob forming in the base of her throat. She hung up the phone and did exactly what her sister asked her to do. She ran.

* * *

 **Fun Facts:  
** **Kale and Rhea are twins that come from a long line of werewolves, called the Stromwells. The Stromwells date back to the time when Llewellyn the Great ruled Wales.**

 **Though she's the eldest of two twins, Kale often follows Rhea's lead.**

 **Astrology and astronomy are Kale's favorite subjects.**

-N


End file.
